


Midweek

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4791281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Wednesday evening...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midweek

**Midweek**

* * *

It's been just _that_ sort of day. Long, exhausting, and a constant battle to rein in his increasingly volatile temper. A seemingly unending series of unnecessary meetings before lunch, interspersed with updates that ranged from bad to appalling regarding several of the unit's current active cases, and then the entirely unexpected and increasingly suspicious suicide of a witness they were counting on for the Hampstead Heath murder. All followed by a spectacular and as yet unexplained falling out between Spencer and Kat that resulted in a lot of door slamming, an entire pot of coffee being inadvertently spilled on the previous day's meticulously compiled case notes, and the kind of squad room tension he neither wants nor needs to know anything about.

And that was just the morning.

The entirety of his afternoon was spent crammed into a hard, uncomfortable Crown Court chair watching Harrison's snarky barrister give Grace and her professional reputation the kind of snide, underhand, inappropriately suggestive mauling that left Boyd grinding his teeth and contemplating, with increasing enthusiasm, the various forms of bare-fisted, darkened alleyway retribution.

Now, stretching slowly against the comfort of the incredibly soft mattress and the equally soft pillows that are partially propping him up, he yawns, attempting to banish all thoughts of the day from his mind and concentrate on the notes he is studying before his turn in the witness box arrives tomorrow. Dutifully returning his eyes to the page, he makes it through a further two paragraphs of revision and onto the third before he is distracted again, this time much more pleasantly as the bedroom door opens and light spills briefly across the threshold from the en suite beyond.

Momentarily framed in the doorway, his best friend and much-adored lover is highlighted by the bright overhead light that shows off gentle curves wrapped in a deep blue dressing gown, a colour that reflects the same bewitching shade in her eyes. His gaze roams automatically, taking in the inviting curve of her waist, the fascinating, tempting outline of her breasts. He’s just focussing on the enticing length of bare legs visible below the hemline of her robe when the switch is flicked and the majority of shadows return, darkness kept only moderately at bay by the lesser burn of the reading lamp beside him.

Grace makes her way over towards the bed, pausing momentarily by the dresser to abandon her slippers and remove her jewellery, and, up close, caressed by the softer glow of a smaller bulb, he's disheartened to see just how tired she looks, how thoroughly worn down.

It's in the way she's moving, slower than usual, just a fraction uncoordinated as she unfastens her earrings, accidentally fumbling and dropping one onto the cluttered surface. Any hint of desire, of growing interest in slowly and thoroughly mapping the softness of her skin, of losing himself in a sensual exploration of her body immediately dies away, concern rising rapidly in its place. "Are you alright?" he asks quietly as she turns, struggling for a moment with the knot at her belt.

Reaching across, he pulls the covers back on her side of the bed for her and Grace quickly crawls underneath, sighing heavily. She’s shivering, he notes, worry immediately spiking another notch.

"Shattered," she admits, snuggling into him as he automatically lifts his arm and then curls it protectively, possessively around her. "It's been a long day." Tilting her head back she kisses him softly. It’s gentle and slow, but lingering, as though she is in need of reassurance. From what though, he has no idea. It does nothing to ease his worries, that kiss, though the light, tender pressure of her lips against his own is the farthest thing from unpleasant. Sadly it lasts just a moment longer, and then she's pulling back and settling down, her head resting on his chest as she tucks her body along the length of his, frozen toes burrowing into the warmth between his calf and the mattress.

Boyd can feel the exhaustion in her, feel the heavy weariness in her muscles, and it is only the scale of the rush of hot, edgy concern that flares in his chest that catches him by surprise, not the concern itself. That he is far too used to, far too acquainted with. All thoughts about preparing for tomorrow are now long gone, the folder forgotten, tumbled into his lap.

"Grace?"

"Mm?" She's very sleepy, already troublingly close to slumber.

"Talk to me," he urges, one hand rubbing gently up and down her arm as the other tenderly strokes her hair, fingers lingering for a moment across her brow, checking for any sign of fever or illness. Even after so many months in the clear he never stops looking for warning signs, never finds a moment when he isn’t wary that something might go wrong, that something might not be right. He wonders if he will ever stop, if the lingering fear will cease to grip him, terrify him in dark, vulnerable moments. He doubts it. Doubts it very much.

This time all appears well though, for her skin is smooth and warm beneath his touch, not hot or cold. She sighs softly against him, eyes closed as she relaxes, the tension in her muscles ebbing. She's close to the edge, he can tell, but he needs to know. Needs to be reassured.

"Grace," he repeats, his tone just a little more insistent this time. He feels her smile against him, smiles himself at the way her arm curves across his chest beneath the blankets as she tucks herself even closer in response. She knows what he is thinking. She always does.

Still she makes the effort though, her voice muffled and faint as she speaks, her breath warm across his skin. "I'm fine, Peter, honest. Stop worrying. I'm just tired, that’s all. It's been a long week so far."

She's right, it really has. And still two more days to go. But if she says all is well, then he believes her. Grace wouldn't lie to him, not about her health. Not anymore.

"Alright," he murmurs, dropping his head a little to kiss the top of hers. "If you say so." There's no reply, she's already sound asleep. Apprehensive as it leaves him, there's nothing Boyd can do tonight. Nothing besides let her dream, keep an eye on her, and hope that this trial, or at least their part in it, is wrapped up by the weekend. If it is, he thinks, he will take her away somewhere for a couple of days. Somewhere quiet; somewhere without ringing phones, rotting bodies and constant disturbances. Somewhere they can just laze away the hours, resting, relaxing and enjoying each other's uninterrupted company.

Grace shifts slightly in her sleep and he realises that he's been watching her, staring at her, lost in her. For some time too, given what the hands on the clock are telling him. The thought drifts through his mind again – a weekend away, just the two of them. Yes, it's a plan. A good one. One he will follow through on. He presses his lips to her hair once more, lingering as his nose soaks up the scent of her, his skin treasuring the warmth of her, the weight of her tucked reassuringly against him. Reluctantly he returns to his notes, but though he concentrates intently, memorising all the details, reminding himself of his argument, the decisions he made and still stands by, the back of his mind holds on to the soft, quiet rhythm of her breathing, the sound soothing him, steadying him.


End file.
